Lemarchand's Legacy
by Glorfindel's Girl
Summary: To save those she loves, one of the Lemarchands must strike a deal with the devil.  But is it a deal she is willing to make, and a price she can ultimately pay? [Complete and edited] [Heavily influenced by the novella]
1. Chapter 1

Lemarchand's Legacy

By SarahFish

Chapter 1

I was born the night that Alexandra Palace burned nearly to the ground, less than a fortnight after its opening. Living in the country, we thankfully managed to avoid the commotion, as well as the smoke, and I was born healthy, pink, and screaming. The only other excitement in the house that night, Nanima later told me, was the fight that erupted after my father told my mother that he hoped that the two events – that is, the fire and my birth – coinciding was not a portent of things to come. It seems my mother always was a humorless, short-tempered woman. Yet I wonder if perhaps that even then my Father suspected something of what was to come, and if it was, in fact, the hint of truth in his words that set my Mother's blood boiling. 

But never mind that yet. For now, you must understand that our estate was a magical place for a child to grow up. I came from a family of naturalists – my parents had traveled the length and width of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and my father's father had sailed the world on the Beagle with that most astounding of heretics, Charles Darwin. Our home, therefore, served as a museum for all the artifacts collected over the years, and nothing was off limits to me as a child. No object, that is, save for one – a little black lacquered chest which sat on my Mother's bedside table. Yet so absorbed was I in other pursuits, that I gave this one forbidden thing little thought.

My early years were happy. I remember how my Indian nanny – Nanima, I called her – dressed me in red silks like a little harlot, and taught me to dance with bells on my wrists and ankles. Father would laugh and clap, keeping time for me. Other times, I would stomp about Father's study wearing one of his grotesque carved masks from darkest Africa – masks as long as I was tall – pretending to be a Fearsome Native Warrior. A thousand other pursuits were not only allowed, but encouraged. And for a while, we were happy.

But then, quite suddenly, my Father died. When I went to bed one evening, he was sitting in his study, engrossed in some book. The next morning, he was gone. I was four years old, yet still I remember awakening to my Mother's shrieks that night. A gloom descended over our home after that, and I found that none of the artifacts or my toys – so recently fascinating to me – bore any interest. None save one – that one object among hundreds that was absolutely forbidden to me.

The chest had been on my Mother's bedside table for as long as I could remember. Ebony and copper, it was a darkly beautiful thing, and one I knew well was completely forbidden to my wandering fingers. A family treasure not meant for little hands, Mother had said once, before promising to tell me about it when I was old enough to understand.

But how many times in the weeks and months after Father's death did I find myself creeping into the bedroom while Mother was engrossed in her sewing, and Nanny in a novel? How often did I run my hands over the chest, watching the reflected light from the oil lamps or a wayward sunbeam reflected in the wood? It became an obsession, one I indulged myself in at every possible moment.

I loved the feel of the polished wood and the cool metal hinges and ornate locks beneath my fingertips. Once or twice I thought I could hear movement in the box – a soft rustling or a chiming of bells faint and far away. But whenever I tried to open it, I found it, as always, locked.

One night when I was five, I found myself, as I often did, creeping across the floor of Mother's bedroom to examine the chest. Though I'd grown a full inch that spring, I was still too small to see atop the table clearly, and so I'd brought along a sturdy book, almost as heavy as I was, to stand on. Placing it on the floor beside the table, I climbed up on it, coming face-to-face with my own reflection in the polished wood of the chest.

I was surprised at how warm it was under my touch. It seemed an odd thing, especially as the first chill of Autumn was already in the air. But the dark chest was warm, almost as though it had been sitting out in the sun. On a whim, I tugged on the lid, not expecting anything, not really.

It opened.

A faint tinkling of bells filled the room in a disjointed melody. A music box. The chest was a music box. I stood on tiptoe to peer inside. The candlelight gleamed across something metallic. I could almost make out the contents, could almost see the mysterious object inside the chest. I stretched as tall as I could, and reached in, pulling back a bit of black silk, straining against the dim light to see.

"What are you doing?!"

I jumped at my Mother's voice, and my foot slipped. The book I'd been standing on slid from beneath me, and I was falling backward, grabbing at the table to stop myself. My hand caught the tablecloth, and I pulled it with me, spilling everything that had been atop the table onto the floor. The chest hit the ground and a small wooden box spilled out of it. It bounced across the marble floor, sliding to a stop at Mother's feet.

She scooped up the box, and without warning her hands were on me, raining down blows and slaps upon any part of me she could reach. Here an open palm to my face, there a glancing blow on my shoulder and as a tried to run away.

"I told you to never _ever _go near that chest!" she screamed. "Why was it open?! Never touch it again!! Never!" Mother snatched me up by my long braids as she threw the box into the chest, slamming down the lid where it latched with a soft click.

Then her hands were on me again as she dragged downstairs and out into the garden where she cut a willow switch. There in the garden she tore my dress off, and beat me with that switch until I bled, until stripes covered my stomach, my legs, my back, all the while screaming, "Why was it open?? I told you never to go near it! Do you understand that? Never! Why was it open? Damn you, why was it open?"

I vaguely recall Nanima rushing out into the garden, trying to shield me from Mother's wrath, but to no avail. Her only reward was several sharp lashes on the backs of her hands, which left deep gashes. Mother beat me until my body was raw and I could cry no more. And when she had exhausted herself from the beating, she left me, naked and bleeding beneath the willow, too furious still to bring me inside.

It was Nanima who carried me into the house that night. Nanima who bathed me with her own bruised and cut hands, and she who slathered my wounds in ointment and bandaged them. After tucking me into bed, she slipped me a chocolate, sneaked from Mother's own store, and a few sips of brandy. The liquor warmed my belly, dulled the pain, brought a haze of drowsiness over my eyes. Still, Nanima fetched a book, curled into bed and read to me. I realize now it was most likely to soothe her own nerves, as much as mine – yet I was grateful for her presence, as well as her voice as she read from the Bhagavad Gita.

_"Tell me who are you in such a fierce form? My salutations to you. Oh best of Gods, be merciful! I wish to understand you, the primal being, because I do not know your mission._

_The supreme Lord said: I am become death, the mighty destroyer of the world, out to destroy. Even without your participation all the warriors standing arrayed in the opposing armies shall cease to exist._

_Therefore, get up and attain glory. Conquer your enemies and enjoy a prosperous kingdom. All these have already been destroyed by Me. You are only an instrument, Oh Arjuna."_

Krishna and Arjuna rambled on, in Nanima's low, melodic voice. Though I fought it, the two combined to start lulling me into sleep. "Read my favorite," I interrupted, growing impatient with their conversation, fighting the edge of sleep. She went silent, and for a moment I feared I'd upset her. Then, the pages shifted, and her voice filled the room again.

_"__Arjuna saw the Universal Form of the Lord with many mouths and eyes, and many visions of marvel, with numerous divine ornaments, and holding divine weapons. _

_Wearing divine garlands and apparel, anointed with celestial perfumes and ointments, full of all wonders, the limitless God with faces on all sides. _

_If the splendor of a thousand suns were to blaze forth all at once in the sky, even that would not resemble the splendor that that exalted being."_

She hardly finished the passage before I dropped off into a deep, blessedly dreamless sleep.

* * *

_This story is for entertainment purposes only. All characters are the sole property of their respective owners. I am not making any kind of financial gain from posting this._

_Quick note from your author - Be aware that this story is based more heavily on the novella The Hellbound Heart (which inspired Hellraiser) than it is the films. While the story you're reading does have its share of Everyone's Favorite Cenobite (or "That fucker with the pins nailed into his head," as Clive Barker once called him), the cenobites are...well... a bit different... _


	2. Chapter 2

Lemarchand's Legacy

by SarahFish

Chapter 2

I was grown before I realized this incident – the beating from which I still bear scars on my legs and back from - happened exactly one year after my father's death. Of course, with the knowledge I have now, I understand my mother's sudden rage that afternoon she found me with the unlocked chest. But at the time, it was a lesson hard learned. Though I do not deny the dark box and the strange melody haunted my dreams for years, never again would I go near her room – let alone the chest - of my own accord. Indeed, it was many weeks before I did not wince at the sound of my mother walking past.

I turned fifteen the year Jack the Ripper held London in a state of terror. Living at our estate, we had successfully managed to avoid most of the hysteria. During the worst of it, though, my father's brother brought his family out to stay at our country home until the fear had subsided. They had come intending to stay maybe a month, then decided the air agreed with them so much that they purchased a ramshackle estate a few miles down the road. Within six months the estate had been restored to its former glory, and my aunt, uncle, and cousin settled in.

I, at least, was glad of the company. Uncle Edward's kind eyes and manners of speech reminded me, vaguely at least, of my father, and Cousin Charity and I had been close since we were little girls. Having my Aunt and Uncle around seemed to do my Mother good as well. Each year since my father's death had found her more withdrawn. At times I would look at her and think that her eyes were those of a madwoman.

"A touch of hysteria, nothing more" Aunt Julia assured me when I voiced my concerns. I, however, was not so sure, but was still relieved to see some of the crazed look recede from Mother's face when Aunt Julia came calling.

I was sixteen when Mother gave me the box.

She'd summoned me up to her bedroom, and immediately I knew something was terribly wrong. The mad glint in her eye, which I had vainly hoped had diminished, was back, and her words were ragged...desperate...insane.

"I failed, Mercy. I was supposed to protect it, but I couldn't...I couldn't...your father didn't believe, but you will...you have to...I'll show you, and then you'll see..."

It was impossible to tell whether she was speaking to me or herself. She clutched the wooden chest in her lap, and as I approached the bedside, I could see she gripped it so tightly her knuckles were white.

"What is it Mother?" I asked, keeping an arm's distance from her. I did not trust the gleam in her eye, or the tone of her voice.

"Come here!" she snapped, gesturing to the bed with her head. Still hesitant, I perched on the edge of her bed. Mother pulled a key from a chain around her neck, and unlocked the ornate copper latch. Bells filled the room, the music box's tune still strange and discordant as she lifted the lid. Mother removed the silk-wrapped box from within the chest. I fought the urge to run from the room ans she peeled back the cloth.

And then...there it was...a small black box, surfaces covered with coper etchings. What that it, I wondered. Was that the thing I had taken such a beating over? A stab of anger flashed through my body.

"Here," Mother said, holding it out. I hesitated. "Here, damn you!" she spat, practically throwing the box at me. I picked it up carefully. It was heavier than it looked, and just a bit too large to hold comfortably in one hand.

I turned the box over in my hands, running fingers over the copper, tracing it with light touch. Light and shadow played tricks against the texture, and I prodded the side, fascinated. Quite unexpectedly, a hidden panel shifted, sliding out of alignment.

"No!" she shrieked, snatching the box from my hands. She clutched it to her chest, pushing the panel back into place. "Never, _ever_ do that."

"It's just a puzzle box," I said, suddenly very frightened by my Mother. More frightened than I had been in years. "It's a toy, Mother...nothing more."

Mother set the box down on the bed between us. "The box is many things," she whispered, staring at me, and for the first time in ages her eyes held no glint of madness. "But a _toy_ is not one of them. It is but one of many made by your damned great uncle, Phillip Lemarchand. It is the only one we managed to _keep_."

I'll not bore you with that which you undoubtedly already know. With tales of Phillip Lemarchand, and his damned _boxes_. Of angels and demons, questions best left unspoken and doors that should not be opened. What you must know is that Lemarchand was my great great uncle, through my mother's side.

So there it is. Do you see now? Do you understand now? My great great grandfather knew of the boxes and their power, of what his brother Phillip had done. Grandfather swore to keep as many as he could, to protect the boxes, or rather, to protect others from the boxes. A fool's folly if ever there was one. The boxes, after all, have a way of being found.

Most have vanished through the years in one way or another, passing from one generation of Lemarchands to another. Though Mother's brothers still had a number, she, herself, only had one left. The puzzle box cradled in my hands – the last one, in fact, that Lemarchand managed to complete. And I, then, am but another protector, the newest spawn of Lemarchand's damned line, and the time had come for Mother's box to pass to me.

It seems laughable, I know. I thought as much that night in my Mother's room. Indeed, more than once that night I fought back the urge to pick up the box from where it lay between us, slide the hidden panels, solve the puzzle.

"Your father did not believe," Mother had whispered. "Or perhaps he did. Either way, he _knows_ now." If I was not convinced wholly then, I nonetheless grew to believe the tale. For there is information a-plenty on such macabre subjects, if only one knows where to look. And one can only read so many complimentary accounts before you begin to wonder if perhaps, the authors know something you do not.

A week after my Mother gave me the box, she climbed to the roof of the West Wing, and flung herself to the grounds below, breaking her neck when she landed. We buried her in the family plot, a suicide, barred from a church burial. So it was that the estate passed to me, and I locked Lemarchand's last box away in a dusty closet and forgot it entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

Lemarchand's Legacy

By SarahFish

Chapter 3

Years passed. I did a better job of forgetting the box, perhaps, than I should. Marriage proposals came and went. I was, after all, in a desirable position in society. Land, money, and no male relatives other than my father's brother who occasionally checked in on my wellbeing. But I was in no mood to marry, even as Cousin Charity wed at eighteen, and a year later gave birth to twin girls, Violet and Lilly. I resigned myself to spinsterhood as Charity and her new family moved into a smaller house on the grounds of her father's estate. Hardly a week went by that they did not find themselves warming my home with their company. The girls grew, and for a while we were happy.

The twins were five when Charity came down with a summer fever. Aunt Julia and Uncle Edward were away until August, and Silas, her husband, did not want the little ones coming down with it as well. So that was how I found myself host to two giggling girls for the better part of a week.

Truth be told, the girls were a delight to have. The estate was in dire need of cleaning, which I had delayed since Spring. Indeed, there was much I had been meaning to sort through since Mother's death – closets and attics full of unknown piles and boxes. This might have, perhaps, continued to go undone had we not been struck with summer thunderstorms all week long.

With the deluge pouring down, we had little else to do but spend our days scouring through the cabinets and closets along with Nanima. Much of what we found could be done away with entirely, though we did happen across the occasional treasure. There was lots of jewelry I no longer cared to keep, but which I suspected Charity would adore. Countless trinkets and toys went into boxes for the girls. Mother's wedding dress even turned up midway through the week, and I gave the lace gown to Lilly and Violet to play dress-up.

The rains let up into mist by Saturday morning, and so I decided to take the girls for a ramble through the estate before their father came to claim them that evening. Though mid-summer, the rains had left a chill in the air, and I had to make sure the girl's wore their woolen stockings, lest they catch chill. The girls enjoyed wandering the damp grounds, pointing out plants and flowers for me to identify along the way. We visited the family plot, and all placed wildflowers on my parents' graves. Then, I took the girls down to the river which cut across the edge of the property. It was swollen with rainwater, and rushed by at a dangerous pace. We watched the water tumble past for a long while, before a distant rumble of thunder warned us that it was time to head back.

We almost beat the rain back to the house. Our hair ended up soaked, as did our dresses. Once inside, we stripped down to our underclothes by the fire, and laid our clothes out to dry, Nanima chuckling at our "indecency" all the while. I unbraided Violet and Lilly's hair, combing it out so it could dry better. We then curled up – still in our underclothes - with blankets by the fire, as I fetched a book of ghost stories. The girls soon lost interest and settled on the hearth to play with their dolls. Nanima was cooking dinner down in the kitchen, and the scent was already wafting up into the room. I leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes, enjoying the smell of dinner, the sound of the fire, and the rain pattering against the huge windows.

When did I fall asleep?

I do not know. One moment, there I was in the living room, wondering if the girls' clothes would be dry in time...the next I was three years old again. It was dark and cold. Somewhere, I could hear my mother crying. I followed the sound down the long hallway towards my Father's study. There is another sound now. Bells, tolling soft and far away, but growing louder as I approached the room. The bells! They are so loud now, drowning out the sound of my mother's cries. And then...

Silence.

Mother is there in the hallway, scooping me in her arms, her face wet with tears.

"He's gone," she whispers. "They've taken your Father, and surely he is damned."

I awoke to the bells, tolling somewhere in the distance. For a moment, they blended with the bells of my dream and I was disoriented. Dream? Was it a dream? Or a memory? How had it really happened? Had my mother really whispered to me that someone had taken my father that night? The more I grasped at the strands of the dream, though, the more they shattered and fell away...shards of broken glass through my fingers.

There. That is enough. I shook the last remnants of the dream away. The sunlight shining across the floor had turned orange, and I realized that I'd slept far longer than I'd meant. Silas would be here any moment, and judging by the smell of roasted fowl coming from the kitchen, dinner would be on the table shortly.

Lilly and Violet were still playing beside the fire in the sitting room, dark heads leaned against one another, deeply engrossed in some game. I heard a bell tolling again in the distance, but shrugged it away.

"What are you doing, girls?" I asked. "Your father will be here any moment. We have to get you ready."

The bells tolled louder.

The two girls started, then looked up at me with wide grins. "Look Aunt Mercy," Violet said, holding out her hands. "We've almost solved it!"

God in heaven...

"No!!"

I lashed out, meaning, perhaps, to slap the puzzle box Violet's tiny hands. But she moved at the last moment, and instead I hit her face so hard that my ring split her cheek open. She shrieked, dropping the box even as the last piece slid into place. _Where had she found it?! _Violet collapsed into hysteric tears, clutching at her cheek as blood poured down her face. Lilly cowered against the hearth, looked up at me with wide, fearful eyes. "What have you _done_?!?" I cried.

The bells tolled, and the room grew chill. A scent of vanilla so strong it stung my nostrils filled the room..but beneath that was another odor, more subtle and sinister. The smell of rot, of decaying flesh. There was a rustle of cloth, a clink of chains behind us, and I knew we were not alone. The Heirophants have come.

"Do not weep, child."

The voice sends chills down my spine, makes things deep in my stomach tighten. I turn, trying to put myself between the girls and this most unwelcome entity, even as Violet pulls away from my touch, still sobbing hysterically.

There are two of them, I realize. Male and female, they stand half-obscured in shadow. Her gown is scarlet, the color of blood, woven to her flesh with gem-topped pins. They glitter at her throat, her shoulders, ears and brow. The male wears the robes of a Han emperor, shining cloth in black, red, and white. His face and head are covered with a grid, carved into flesh, and at each intersection of the vertical and horizontal axises a jeweled pin is driven in to the bone. Silent, they regard us, horrifying and beautiful, the Cenobites of the Order of the Gash.

It is the woman who comes forward, stooping low, throwing open her arms as though waiting for an embrace. Chains trail from her wrists to her back, their points of attachment concealed by her dark hair. "Come here child," she says, reaching out to Violet. "I shall make it better."

Violet darts from behind me and runs to the demon, the edge of her chemise slipping through my fingers as I grab at it. The male raises his hand, and a chain materializes from the very air, wrapping around my wrist to hold me in place. The hooked end presses against the underside of my arm, only a warning, then, to stay back, whispered promises that the next will be through my flesh. And so, helpless, I watch as Violet throws her arms around the Cenobite's neck, buries her face in its shoulder and sobs, blood still running in rivulets down her cheek.

The Cenobite stands, picking Violet up, and strokes her face, brushing damp hair away from her cheeks with long bejeweled fingers. "Shh...such a fleeting thing," she whispers, rocking her slowly. "It doesn't hurt, not really." The demon's skin is dusty with ash, gems and metal embedded in her flesh glittering in the firelight. Her hand goes to one of the jeweled pins fastening her gown to her shoulder. Slowly, she pulls it from her flesh, blood oozing from the wound to stain her gown, then hands the gleaming pin to Violet.

"Come now," the creature whispers, placing a kiss on Violet's bleeding cheek. "It is not so terrible. You will see. Look, I shall show you."

The Cenobite brushes the hair from Violet's eyes, gathers it up, twisting it into a knot at the crown of her head. "You only think of pain because you expect it to be so. It is all in here," she strokes her face before pulling the pin gently from Violet's grasp. Blood trails from the pin to Violet's little hands.

"Embrace it," she whispers. "Take it apart. " Violet puts her bloodstained fingers into her mouth as the demon slides the pin into her hair, holding the knot in place. "See?" she asks. "No pain. No pleasure. It's only sensation."

Blood still runs down Violet's face, but her tears have dried. She smiles at the demon. "Only sensation?" she whispers.

"Very good, child," she replies, the shadow of a smile crossing her scarred features before she kisses Violet's forehead once more. "Lilly," she says, turning its attention to us. I grab for her, but she shrinks away, still terrified by my earlier outburst. I will be damned before I let the demons have them both.

"Come here, sweet one," she says. "I have such things to show you." It holds out its bejeweled hand, adorned not with rings, but with faceted stones set into fingers, silver woven through flesh like a macabre tapestry.

"Lilly, come on," Violet says, snuggling against the Cenobite's neck. Her words are soft, content, and drowsy.

She takes a hesitant step forward, then pauses, torn between staying and following her sister.

"Lilly, no," I cry. "Do _not_ listen to them. Come here!" I lunge for her, momentarily forgetting the chain binding my wrist. Suddenly my shoulder burns with pain, and my body jerks backward. Looking down, I see the barb of hook embedded in my flesh, blood seeping from the wound. The chain jerks me back, digging the hook further into my shoulder, and I scream. Lilly stares at me in horror, taking another step towards the Cenobites.

"Now. There was no need for that, Mercy," the male says, speaking for the first time. His voice is low, his tone...infinitely patient. And for a moment I swear there is something in that voice...something I almost know... "Come now, little one, we've wasted time enough already."

He steps from the shadows, light glittering on the pins adorning his face, the long sleeves of his robe dragging the floor. Taking Lilly's hand, a trace of a smile crosses his features when she pulls away from him.

"No sense in that, little one," he says. His hand closes over hers, and he scoops her up into his arms, like a groom carrying his new bride over the threshold. Terrified, Lilly begins to weep. "You both opened the box. Innocent or no, it cannot be undone now."

"Please, God no!" I shriek, grabbing for them, despite the hook digging info my flesh. Blood oozes from the wound, falling in thick drops to the Persian carpeting. "They are only children – children!"

The male pauses, looking back at me. "Only children?" he asks. "Children are so eager to be molded to our ways. Oh the things we will teach them, Mercy. So young...so eager...so willing to understand the delicate interplay of our works...the joys of pain, of flesh, of _sensation_."

"Do you not see?" the female asks, still caressing Violet's hair.

"Please...please release them. They do not know!" I am crying, body heaving with the force of the sobs. Lilly too is weeping, clutching at the male Cenobite's robes. Only Violet remains silent, strangely content in the woman's arms.

"Mercy, no more begging," the female says. "We cannot return alone. You know the rules."

"Then take me!" I shriek. "Take me and leave them!" The two Cenobites exchange a silent glance.

"And why should we do that?" the male asks, shifting Lilly in his arms. "One soul exchanged for two so easily molded? So easily trained to our ways?"

"I will not fight you! I will go willingly. I swear it!"

"But this one is already so willing," says the female, tracing the curve of Violet's ear. "And the other will learn soon enough."

"Then take me because I am a Lemarchand!" I scream, pulling against my chains, against the hooks again. "Take me because if you do not, this box shall never see the light of day!" The male laughs.

"It is but one gateway among many," he says, dismissively. But still they do not turn to leave.

"Oh, no...I swear to you, Cenobite, if you take them, I shall hunt down ever last one of those damned boxes, and by whatever dark pact I must make, I will see them destroyed!" The darkness in my voice terrifies me. Even the Cenobites seem to take pause, to draw back. I perceive an opening, and make my move. "I _beg _you. Take me. Take me and I will go willingly. The girls shall throw the box into the river to be found by some unwitting soul. Take me instead, and I will serve you. Take me...and I will _worship_ you."

My body screams with pain as I kneel, straining against the hooks embedded in my shoulder, my arm. I can feel them rip, feel them tearing into muscle as I bow. "Please. _Let_ me worship you."

The chains release, and I fall to the floor. My shoulder and wrist are gouged deeply, my arms unable to support my weight. I struggle to my knees, try desperately to keep from huddling before them.

"Come Mercy," the woman says. "Worship me. Prostrate yourself before me, _show_ me your devotion, and maybe..._maybe_ we will consider your offer."

I crawl forward, head bowed low to the ground. My fingers touch the edge of her gown, and she lifts the hem, exposing a bare foot, horrifically scarred and dusted with ash. Chains extent from her ankle up her leg, vanishing under her skirt. My lips touch the top of her foot, trying desperately to keep the kiss as reverent as I may.

"If the splendor of a thousand suns were to blaze forth all at once in the sky, even that would not resemble the splendor of your most exalted being," I whisper. A tear falls from my cheek to the top of her foot, leaving a streak in the dusting of ash.

And then, quite unexpectedly, they laugh. A terrible joyless sound, but laughter nonetheless. The go on for hours, it seems, before the woman finally speaks.

"Very well," she says. "If you are so eager to go in their place, very well." The cenobite stoops, setting Violet down beside me. She grabs my arms, pulling me to my feet, and I fight back a cry as the motion tears open the wound on my shoulder.

The male sets Lilly down, and she runs to her sister, pulling her away from us. "Come on, Violet!" she cries, pulling at her arm.

"Take the box," I tell them. "Throw it into the river. Take it, do it now!" The confusion – the conflict – in Violet's eyes is too much for me to bear, and I break into tears again. "Do it!" I scream.

Lilly grabs for the box, pulling Violet with her.

"Come, Mercy," the male Cenobite says, taking my hand. "No tears. You knew the bargain." I nod, still sniffling, wiping tears from my cheeks. Again, I cannot help but think there is something horribly familiar about the pin-headed male, something hovering just on the edge of memory. "It is time," he says.

"Oh best of gods, be merciful," I whisper as the doorway opens. From the corner of my eye, I see the girls fleeing the room. The female Cenobite shakes her head.

"Oh, Mercy..." she whispers. Or was it "no mercy?" I cannot be sure.

The door is open, and I cross the threshold, flanked by the Cenobites. Then there is darkness, and for a while I remember no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Lemarchand's Legacy

by SarahFish

Chapter 4

The lessons of the Cenobites are many and wise. The first I learned at their hands was that time no longer bore meaning. Minutes...hours...years...in this place, they were all the same. There was no longer a future, nor did I have a past. There was only now, a single moment stretching into infinity.

It was the pin-headed one who taught me this first, most valuable lesson. Though true to my word I did not fight the Cenobites, that did not stop my fear, nor did it stop my screams and cries when their ministrations became too much to bear.

Such was the case during that particular time, when I lay, chained, writhing, body wracked with pleasure...pain...with such sensation I thought I would go mad with it. When it seemed I could no longer bear it, I found his hands in my hair, jerking my head back. Something deep in my neck snapped, and my vision went white.

"You will bear this," he hissed in my ear. "This _is_ your existence now. It is all you are. And you shall endure it."

He was right, of course. Once I realized this, once I let go of the thought of the future, of an end to anything, it became bearable. As long as I could endure this one moment I shall continue.

The second lesson I learned was that pleasure and pain were simply two different faces of the same entity. It is only sensation. It is all one and the same, and I can endure it all.

I realized at one point that there was someone in the cell beside mine. This is strange. I do not recall ever having someone beside me before.

We talk though a crack in the mortar. He says his name is Elliot. I no longer remember my name, but I remember my Lessons, and I whisper them to him in the dark. Sometimes I hear him weeping. I assure him that he will learn soon enough.

"I am changing," he says. My concept of time has been so greatly altered I cannot give any thought to how much has passed since Elliot first came. "I am changing," he whispers again.

My cell opens, and it is the pin-headed cenobite, come for me again. No longer do I cower in fear, instead I rise to meet him, eager, willing.

"I want to understand you," I say, bowing before him. "I want to know you, so I may serve your mission."

Elliot's voice is different. When he speaks, he tries to explain what is happening to him. But like so many things here in the Labyrinth, the changes cannot be put into meaningful words. "There is someone in my head...someone here with me..." he whispers. "I am changing."

I feel it too. Though it is not me I feel changing, not really. More my understanding. I feel as a child seeing the world for the first time. The cenobite comes for me again, and I smile when he lays a hand on my head.

"Soon," he promises. "Soon."

Elliot has gone silent. I know he still lives, as I can hear his movements through the cracks. But he no longer speaks to me. If I could still regret, I would. But I am beyond it...oh God...beyond everything!

Then, finally, I hear him draw breath. Hear his whispered words. "I am...I am...I am become death, destroyer of worlds."

He goes still, and speaks no more.

The door opens, and it is the pin-headed cenobite, come for me again. But he has changed, I think. Gone are his emperor's robes and their deep colors, replaced by a mockery of a priest's cassock, gashes in the chest revealing open wounds. The pins adorning his face and head are no longer jeweled, no longer ornate. There is something else different as well...but I cannot place it.

He carries with him a clay pot and a bundle of cloth. In the dark he strips away my clothes, taking away bleeding and blistered skin with the cloth. It is a strange sensation, and I break it into its individual components. Tearing, stinging, burning, the air very cold against the raw skin. He pulls my hair back, pinning it high atop my head.

I stand bare as he dips his hands into the clay pot, coming out with handfuls of ash. He spreads it over my skin, turning my body dusty gray. I watch, fascinated as the color changes.

Then, he dresses me, unfolding new clothing from the bundle he brought. There are gashes and openings in the fabric, blatantly displaying some of the wounds and scars given me since my arrival. Finished, he steps back for a moment to examine the final product. He nods, seemingly satisfied, then holds out his hand.

"Come," he says. "A task awaits us."

The man lays nude on the altar, his face and head bleeding where each of the pins was pulled from his flesh. They lay beside him, jeweled ends glittering in the candle light. Blood oozes across his body, drawing lines in the ash covering his skin. Robes in black, white, and red lay folded at his feet. Emperor's robes, I think.

I pause, confused. The pin-headed cenobite turns to me.

"I am Xipe Totec," he says, dark eyes cool and emotionless. "I shall always be Xipe Totec. But now I am also Elliot Spenser. Do you understand this?"

Ah, so that is the difference I could not place. It is clear now, that it is a different man before me. Different...but the same...Xipe Totec, as he always was.

"I understand," I reply. "He was new vessel for your being."

I look at the man, bleeding on the altar.

"He is but a dying vessel, waiting to be dispersed," Xipe Totec says, answering the unasked question. I understand, then, what must be done. I follow Xipe Totec to the altar. As we approach, the bleeding man turns his head towards me, and I know him.

It is my father.

I can hear him now, repeating the same word over and over.

"Mercy...mercy...have mercy..."

"Shhh," I whisper, tracing the grid carved into his scalp, the holes where the jeweled pins had laid.

"Mercy..."

Xipe Totec places the knife in my hand. I cut the man's throat, and the word is drowned out by blood. His eyes go wide, then fade as his blood flows over the altar, dripping onto the floor. One last choking breath...and then no more.

I look to Xipe Totec and he nods.

"Well done, good and faithful servant," he says, sweeping up the jeweled pins. From some place in his cassock he removes a vial of liquid, then directs me to kneel.

"I am Xipe Totec," he repeats. "And so shall I always be – but now I am also Elliot Spencer. You, though, are as you always were. And all that you shall be is as you are." He uncaps the vial, and the scent of vanilla fills the room.. He pours the oil over my head. He dips his free hand into the blood pooled on the altar, then traces a pattern on my forehead with it.

"Mercy, I name you," he says. "Blood of our blood, and flesh of our flesh I anoint you, and so shall you be." He takes one of the jeweled pins, placing it between my eyebrows, and with one motion, pushes it in all the way to the jeweled tip. He repeats the process across my forehead, creating a circlet. He stood back. "Stand, Mercy, and join the ranks of the Hierophants, the Theologians of the Order of the Gash."

My eyes meet his, and I smile as I stand.

"Come, he says. You have much work to do," he says, indicating the room with a sweeping gesture. I am aware, then, that it is filled with similar altars, with nude writing bodies, all bleeding, all dusty with ash. Used vessels, prepared to be cast away.

I bow low before my maker. "All these have already been destroyed by you. I am but an instrument of your will, oh Vasa Iniquatatis."

He nods. "I leave you to your work, Mercy."

Turning to survey my domain, I smile. The blades in my hands are heavy, and the halls before me vast. I have an eternity to fulfill my work.

I am Mercy. I am an instrument of the will of the Order of the Gash. And I..._I_ am become death.


End file.
